Voices
I phoned a friend.
She said it didn't sound like me.
I'd been talking to an insurance rep
in my very-intelligent-don't-give-me-any-BS voice.
Must have forgotten
to revert back to best-friend mode.I cannot explain why I find the need
to castigate the valid self
and transmute my noise to fit multiple situations,
albeit with some agony of pretense.When reading poetry, the dialogue is arty-tarty.
If dealing with rudeness, a well-machined barb grates the air,
the sticky-sticky-coo reserved for the dog.If vocals sound like a sea crashing against rock,
time to leave me alone.
Jealous tones crack the porcelain music
my tongue yearns to spill.
Stutters rescue embarrassment.A busty accent is best left unexplained.
Screeching leads to hysteria.
Sniffling gulps and wet curses
mean I will never fall in love again.Each day brings a variant of sound
that tiptoes through murmurs at midnight
and decodes the whispers
passing through the jacaranda tree.
